You’re not welcome anymore

Comments Off on You’re not welcome anymore05 August 2018

On a beautiful summer Saturday in the centre of Bristol, lurching from pub to pub with family and friends, the start of the football season could not have been further from my mind. It could not have felt less like football weather, the only telltale sign was a large presence of jolly, largely middle aged men from Nottingham filling their boots with booze before the long walk to watch their team, Forest, play against Bristol City at Ashton Gate. I wished them luck before largely forgetting about football for the rest of the day, save the odd glance at my phone to see how the Rovers were getting on.

Even when I really cared about football, I felt the season started too soon. In my newly found state of apathy, I’m slightly disappointed it’s started at all. Yesterday, the lower leagues recommenced, today’s it’s the Community Shield at Wembley and next week nothing matters more in the entire world than the over-priced, over-hyped and, sadly, over here, Premier League.

After the glories of the world up, which briefly rekindled my enthusiasm for our national game, it took around 30 seconds of hearing Jose Mourinho’s moaning to remind me what a proper shit show football, at least at the top level, has become.

“Ah,” I hear you cry. “Your new team, Liverpool, has splurged hundreds of millions of pounds on foreign players. You’re just a fucking hypocrite moaning about everyone else.” Or something. Except that Liverpool is NOT my new team, it’s not even my team because I never go, I have no geographical nor familial connections to the place, which I did have towards Bristol Rovers in the days I was genuinely in love with them. In fact, I find almost everything about the Premier League to be roughly the opposite of things I believe in. Another nine months of Jose having a ruck with, well, everyone and squillionaires from all corners of the world earning in a week what many of us won’t earn in a decade. And idiots like me paying for them.

The world cup actually did remind us that football was still a beautiful game, that there were still players – English players at that – who actually cared about more than the next pay cheque and who played with genuine passion and spirit. But now we’re back to flogging satellite dishes and Sky TV trying to persuade us that a dour mid table Premier League game is actually the best football since Pele was playing.

When the dark nights arrive, I suppose I will start watching TV football again because that’s what I usually do. And those dark nights are, perhaps, only a month away and seem to last forever. For now, I am happy with this seemingly endless summer, which will end soon enough. Apart from the world cup, football and summer don’t mix. For me, they never did and never will.